


Morte ad Vitam

by DarkSippingChocolate



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Emotional Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Post Reichenbach, Rape Recovery, Rape/Non-con References, Torture, Violence
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-01-01
Updated: 2013-01-13
Packaged: 2017-11-23 06:23:15
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 3
Words: 4,488
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/619051
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkSippingChocolate/pseuds/DarkSippingChocolate
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock comes back from the dead after two long years, opening fresh, painful wounds for John Watson.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Fury

The clipboard nearly falls from his hands.  
  
All logical thought—all of the barriers, walls, and other coping mechanisms that John Hamish Watson has erected fall apart in an instant.  
  
He was just a patient. Just one of the crowd. The last had been a small child with persistent flu symptoms. This one was no different—a man who had a rather deep laceration, and just needed to be a bit patched up. Stitches. Nothing extravagant—nothing that would require the need for an emergency room.  
  
The name on the clipboard read ‘Jerome Gresham’.  
  
A pair of sharp, silvery eyes peer up at him as he slips through the door, saying something soothing. He had addressed the final question to ‘Mr. Gresham’, only to lock eyes with none other than Sherlock Holmes.  
  
And the pair sat in shocked silence.  
  
Had John not been utterly thrown for a loop, he would have noticed—with more tenderness—just how gaunt Sherlock appeared, or perhaps the bruises lining his face, or perhaps, just perhaps, how utterly _haunted_ those silvery eyes appeared.  
  
But John stands there, re-reading the name ‘Jerome Gresham’ in his mind, over and over and over again, even while staring into the face of Sherlock Holmes.  
  
The heavy haze begins to lift from John’s mind—along with the carefully constructed barriers—and he speaks. Softly.  
  
“Sh…Sherlock…”  
  
His voice is a question and a statement wrapped up into one.  
  
He can’t bear the thought that it might not be Sherlock—and so he can’t bear to ask. But the pseudonym…that one persistent flaw…  
  
Flashes of images assault John as his mind begins to wrap more fully around the idea that this could be Sherlock…that Sherlock _wasn’t_ buried in the cold ground not five miles away...  
  
John’s mind snaps him back to reality, though, when the man _speaks_.  
  
“...John,” he breathes, voice dusty and grave from underuse--or perhaps abuse. “I...I’m sorry.”  
  
Grief and pain flood to the surface, fresh as an open wound. Two years flood back to him--the counseling, the pain...the screaming, the rage, and the agony of emptiness.  
  
He knows he shouldn’t hit a patient. Somewhere down inside, he recognizes that Sherlock is too thin, too fragile.  
  
But he can’t hold back.  
  
His emotions flood into a singular, solitary feeling--fury, and before he knows what’s happened, he’s hit Sherlock so hard that the consulting detective is on the ground.  
  
“You had no right,” John hisses, careful to keep his voice down, “...you had no right to do this to me...”  
  
“...John...” Sherlock whispers again, fresh pain in his eyes.  
  
The voice--and the pain on his knuckles--alight something in John once again. Apparitions can speak, but they are incapable of being struck.  
  
He lowers his fist--glancing at his knuckles before fixing his eyes on Sherlock.  
  
“Why now?” the doctor hisses, his voice barely restraining the rage he feels, “Do you think you can just...”  
  
He trails off, setting his jaw.  
  
Sherlock slowly stands up, and John has a right mind to hit him again. His head is angled down, those brows cutting across those eyes. Sherlock is focused on the ground, standing up to his full height, but his shoulders are slumped.  
  
He’s wearing what could be generously called ‘threadbare’ clothes. His coat is shreds of what it once was, and his trousers and shirt are stained and soiled.  
  
And then he looks up.  
  
John’s fist suddenly unclenches.  
  
In those silvery blue eyes is something else...something much more painful. He realizes how deeply he’s hurt John...and it seems to...do something to Sherlock. Those eyes nearly look broken with how much apology is in them.  
  
It’s painful, and John can no longer stay angry.  
  
The anger flows out of John Watson, leaving a miserable wake of pain and loss in his chest, coupled with the strange recognition that Sherlock is there.  
  
Suddenly, however, Sherlock is moving for the door. “...I’m sorry,” he breathes again, “...I didn’t...mean for this to happen.”  
  
John grabs his wrist as he reaches the door, nearly recoiling with how thin Sherlock is...  
  
“No, wait. I--”  
  
Sherlock turns back to look at him, the look of a frightened deer in those eyes.  
  
“...where can I find you again?”  
  
Sherlock hands him a small piece of paper--his hand shaking as he does so.  
  
And then he’s gone.


	2. Darkness

The piece of paper burns in John’s hand.  
  
The cab is quiet, the seat under him cold.  
  
It rains, slowly at first, but a miserable drip, the dying sun masked with a haze of depressive gray. There is nothing but the steady pitter patter of the rain and the cold, cruel slosh of wet tires on the wet street.  
  
The cab-ride lasts forever, just like the ride to...  
  
John clenches his eyes shut, fighting against the wave of emotion and the images...  
  
 _He was arrested soon after Sherlock’s death, so he couldn’t go to the funeral, so this was the first time he’d seen the grave. It had been raining all day, and the roads were soaked. Everything was wet...everything was dark...and there was no sound but the cruel wind and the driving rain._  
  
 _The rain let up near the grave—in fact, the rain had never fallen near the grave._  
  
 _He felt the cold stone under his fingers—the solid proof that Sherlock Holmes would never walk again...would never think...would never deduce—_  
  
 _He pleads to the dead man...begging him to come back..._  
  
And now, are his prayers answered?  
  
The address on the paper leads John to a rundown looking hotel...just like the one he stayed in before moving into 221B. Just like the one he stayed in just after Sherlock’s death.  
  
The cab stops.  
  
John steps out, his thin coat not enough to keep out the chill of the now pelting rain. The sidewalk is dirty, and a low rumble of thunder ripples overhead as he reaches for the handle to the door.  
  
The lobby is dimly lit, dingy, and there’s more than a hint of suspicion cast in his direction as he walks in through the door.  
  
He can see the eyes watching him from the shadows, sense the distrust. The cloying scent of tobacco smoke gnaws at his senses, suffocating him.  
  
He slips through the lobby without a single glance to anything but the door, and walks up the stairs.  
  
 _205..._  
  
 _207..._  
  
The numbers on some of the doors are missing, and the one that supposedly reads ‘209’ really just reads a crooked 9.  
  
John raises his hand, as if to knock, but can only bring himself to rest his fingers against the wood of the door.  
  
The fierce anger that had all but consumed him in the surgery has been completely purged, leaving only heaviness in its wake. Tears, unbidden and unwanted spring to his eyes as he remembers the intense _hurt_ on Sherlock’s face...the fresh, bruise painting his pale, scuffed face...  
  
He finally knocks, then rests his head against the door, biting his lip to keep back the wave of emotion.  
  
There is no answer.  
  
There’s a crushing weight on John’s chest as he lifts his head, looking at the door for a long moment. There’s no answer.  
  
 _Have I finally gone mad? Constructed a fantasy—a hallucination—to help me find some false closure?_  
  
A wave of dizziness hits John hard. He didn’t think that he had put any stock at all in the thought that Sherlock might be alive, but the idea that after what happened earlier today...that he might still be dead....  
  
His knees weaken slightly as a silent sob wrenches itself from his lips.  
  
 _No...no not again..._  
  
Not the months of waking like this, gasping, sweating, crying...  
  
Not the days of hearing faint violins...  
  
Not the silent moments when he thinks he feels his phone buzz...  
  
No, he can’t do it again...it would _kill_ him...  
  
The door opens, and John staggers to right himself.  
  
Sherlock Holmes stands in front of him, a ghost of his former self, yes, but _breathing_...somehow _alive_. He’s wearing that coat again, and it’s open—John can see the thinness of his frame and the way he _trembles_.  
  
It’s subtle, but John can see it now that his mind isn’t clogged with fierce anger.  
  
The sudden presence rips John out of his self depressive thoughts.     
  
This time—no more than a foot away from Sherlock...  
  
...and the only thing John Watson can do, in that shocked moment, is observe.  
  
Sherlock’s eyes are bloodshot, and there are deep dark circles under them. His hair is matted and stained with something dark, and there’s a large bruise over his left cheek, fresher than the others.  
  
His scarf is loose, and John can make out the faint finger-shaped prints of a strangulation attempt. His shoulders are slumped, defeated, and his breathing is shallow, yet labored.  
  
His clothes are torn and soiled, his body is weak and wasted, and his eyes are haunted and lonely.  
  
...this was not the man John Watson knew.  
  
The two men stand, watching each other. John can see that, though weak, Sherlock Holmes was fixing him with that familiar stare—the quiet, deductive stare. But he seemed almost distracted; every few moments, he would look down and wince slightly, a shuddering breath rippling through his body.  
  
“Come in.”  
  
The voice is deep, and makes John start. It sounded worse than it did at the surgery. It was deeply torn and abused, barely a hint above a whisper. Sherlock moves to let John in, and as John slips past him, again...Sherlock briefly looks down and winces.  
  
The room is small, sparse, and filthy. The bed is made, but sloppily, but there are no bags of any sort. Not even a change of clothes.  
  
John settles himself into a flimsy chair, his gaze slowly lifting to Sherlock. He watches the way that he shuts the door, locking it immediately, and looks outside...  
  
After assuring himself that whatever danger is out there isn’t going to try and break down that door, he moves with such an eery lightness to the edge of the bed, sitting down gingerly, as if afraid to make noise.  
  
“...you’re not okay,” John finds himself saying. It’s terribly obvious, and John knows it. He knows that, years ago, if he had said such a thing to Sherlock Holmes that he would have been hautily refuted. “ _Yes, thank you for the single most_ obvious _statement, John_ ,” he might have sneered, an odd look of disappointment on his face for his companion’s uncharacteristic _inanity_.  
  
But Sherlock Holmes merely looks up at him, a defeated sort of confirmation on his face. Those exhausted, tormented eyes simply glance down, and those soft, matted curls bob as he nods.  
  
“...you’re right,” he wheezes, his dark baritone voice gone in place of a whispy, hissed one, “...I’m not....”  
  
He suddenly looks up, a deep desperation on his face.  
  
“...you...you have to understand, I...I lied to you...to save you. Do you believe me?”  
  
 _Nobody could be that clever._  
  
For months he had heard those words—one of the last words that Sherlock said to John before he jumped—as invalidation to his hope.  
  
He had promised that no one could ever convince him that Sherlock told a lie, but...the years had taken their toll. Without Sherlock’s fresh, impressive wit, the memory of such a great man had whittled away into myth, and John found himself wondering if anyone could be that clever.  
  
It _had_ been two years.  
  
“...there...there were snipers. If I hadn’t...died...if I hadn’t appeared to the world like I was dead...”  
  
His voice is just as emotional as it was that day on the phone. An element of purest, deepest heartbreak. The sound of a man who has lost everything...  
  
John remembers, with clarifying, painful detail, just what he had said to Sherlock before he leapt off of the roof.  
  
 _You machine..._  
  
 _No, friends protect people._  
  
He had wondered, in retrospect, if that had been what drove Sherlock to the roof. He wondered if the man had been so tortured by what John had said about him that it drove him to suicide. He had tossed possibilities around over and over in his mind until he was almost ready to throw _himself_ off of a roof.  
  
Never once had he thought it was because Sherlock was trying to save him.  
  
His lips part at the thought. His lips part as he gazes at the shadow of a man sitting before him. He wasn’t dead...  
  
“...it...it was a lie?” John asks, his voice timid...quiet.  
  
Sherlock nods, frantically, his left arm lifting as if to reach out to John, but then he seems to think better of it, letting it rest back in his lap.  
  
“Yes,” he utters, voice smokey. “It was, John, it was...”  
  
Sherlock slowly lowers his head into his hands and shivers.  
  
It suddenly occurs to John, in that moment, that Sherlock _did_ come to the surgery today. He fears the answer, but can’t help but to ask it.  
  
“...Sherlock...” he breathes, “...did you come...for help?”  
  
Sherlock lowers his head further into his hands, and whispers something mumbled and incoherent behind his fingers.  
  
John slowly stands up. It’s rare that he can look down on Sherlock—even rarer that the taller lets him.  
  
“...show me,” he whispers, unwilling to touch Sherlock.  
  
Not yet.  
  
He backs up just a little—to offer Sherlock a bit more room as the once great Consulting Detective slides off his coat, then slowly unbuttons the remaining buttons on his worn and threadbare shirt.  
  
John gasps as the shirt slowly flutters away, revealing that bare chest, so thin it’s frightening. His chest and stomach are livid with angry bruises—bruises that _can’t_ be a result of just a fight. They seem too intentional....too clean.  
  
His ribs must be cracked on his left side—the purple mottling betraying the internal injury.  
  
John draws a deep breath and looks around. There’s a small sink nearby, and he takes a few minutes to wash up. There’s a half empty bottle of some indiscriminate soap, and he makes use of it. He wets down a torn washcloth and sets it on his chair.  
  
John soon shifts into Dr. Watson.  
  
“Take a deep breath,” he asserts, placing one hand on the center of Sherlock’s chest. “Inhale...”  
  
Sherlock feels warm to the touch, perhaps too warm. His breath is labored—further indicative of his injury. He can only manage a medium depth breath before he lets it go.  
  
John places his right hand on Sherlock’s side—gingerly placing his fingers on the bruise and pressing.  
  
Sherlock doesn’t outright cry, but he shifts. John doesn’t notice the wide-eyed nervous stare that the taller gives him.  
  
 _Two fractured ribs, swelling indicates that he sustained them days ago._  
  
He takes the wet cloth and smoothes it over the bruising, cleansing the dirt away. He notes more heavy bruising along Sherlock’s stomach, then—  
  
There’s a small, but very clean scar that teases John, just out a view. He can see the edge of it...  
  
He turns to look, turning to gaze at Sherlock’s now bare back...and gasps.  
  
 _I. O. U._  
  
It was carved into his back.  
  
It must have been months ago, with how much the wound has since healed, but it would never fade away much more than it had. Sherlock Holmes would be forever branded that way.  
  
But the familiar inscription inspires more than just sympathy.  
  
 _Fear_.  
  
Jim Moriarty had left the message countless times for Sherlock, from the graffiti near 221b Baker Street to a discarded apple with the letters carved into it. But...but Jim was dead...  
  
“...Sherlock,” John begins to whisper, “...Sherlock, what...what happened to you...?”  
  
The faint quaver that Sherlock had suddenly mounts to violent shaking, and he stands up. John has never seen so much fear in those eyes. He grabs at his discarded coat with a badly trembling hand and without another word, moves for the door.  
  
This time, however, John catches him.  
  
He snatches that thin wrist, and Sherlock whips around with such speed that John startles back. Sherlock’s breathing turns erratic and panicked when he looks down at him, eyes startled—wide— _terrified_. His hand trembles in John’s grasp.  
  
Yet he doesn’t pull away.  
  
The conclusion begins to solidify in John’s mind.  
  
 _If Sherlock is alive...Moriarty must be as well._  
  
Judging by the terrified expression playing on Sherlock’s face, he guesses that Moriarty isn’t passive in all this. A darker thought begins to roil in John’s mind as Sherlock rests his head against the door with a faint pained sound, lifting his free hand to cup the bruised flesh around his injured ribs.  
  
“...I have to go, John,” comes a soft whisper, “...I...I’m sorry.”  
  
John releases that wrist, gazing up at Sherlock with his own brand of terror. What would happen to him, as soon as John let him go?  
  
Sherlock gazes down, then, his dark lashes flitting towards his wrist.  
  
“I’ve missed you,” he offers, voice still ephemeral, before he slips out the door.  
  
But John will be _damned_ if something happens to Sherlock again.  
  
“Sherlock!” he screams, pushing the door back open and glancing down the hall.  
  
He’s gone. Vanished. Like fog evaporating in the morning sun.  
  
John screams. He screams and he hits the wall so hard that his fist is bleeding, but he doesn’t notice or care.  
  
A sudden deep feeling coils in his chest--deep, angry, and extremely wild. It sees red, and it growls.  
  
The same wild thing that made him jump at Moriarty that day at the pool--the wild thing that gladly would have died if it meant that bastard was going with him.  
  
John feels it grow into something nearly tangible--feels his chest tighten with rage.  
  
 _I’ll kill you, Jim Moriarty. I swear I will end you._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you for all the kudos. I'll be uploading (or trying to upload) every Sunday from here on out. I'm not sure how many chapters there will be. Still looking for a beta/britpicker. Thanks a bunch c:


	3. Torture

“Did he hit you again?”

 

The voice is cruel, drenched in utter sweetness. A blade coated in honey.

 

“Really though, did you enjoy your time with Dr. Watson? As I was so generous to let you have it...”

 

A hand slides under that thin jaw, a thumb sweeping across bruised and chapped lips. When the figure, kneeling on scraped and torn knees, doesn’t respond, the hand suddenly grips the jaw tightly.

 

“Even after two visits, and he has yet to treat you. Some pet. Really, Sherlock, why do you wish to return to _him_?”

 

Sherlock says nothing. The question is rhetorical; the man does not want an answer. He doesn’t want any answer. He just wants to gloat.

 

It’s been a year, and it’s always like this. Every night. Every night since...

 

Nails suddenly dig in deep into his throat and he’s lifted off the ground and against the wall. It isn’t new, but the crushing lack of air always induces some form of panic. Sherlock forces himself not to fight...forces himself to remember the countless times he tried, and the horrible consequences.

 

He tries to will his body to believe that dying of asphyxiation would be preferable to anything else that would be done to him, but his body still rebels. His eyes shoot wide.

 

Perhaps it was seeing John again. Perhaps it was the touch—the care...maybe the lack of anger on John’s face. He had missed John so deeply, so desperately, and seeing him today...especially seeing his eyes wide with care rather than furious anger...

 

Sherlock’s hands lift to the ones around his bare throat, and he claws desperately.

 

_I want to see him once more...I can’t...I can’t die again. What would that do to John? What would—_

 

His thoughts are torn from him.

The one act of self preservation—the _one_ moment of weakness...

 

He’s thrown down to the ground. Something blunt hits his fractured ribs, and he lets out a soundless shriek.

 

“Really now, Sherlock, this is how you repay my kindness?”

 

Sherlock slowly rolls so that he’s gazing up towards the voice.

 

Jim Moriarty stands, rim-lit with those terrible factory lights, his shadow casting over Sherlock. It’s difficult to make out his expression, but there’s little doubt as to what sort of manic smile was slashing across that face.

 

A foot—heavy and booted—smashes down on his back, forcing him to the ground. It crushes into his broken ribs, and Sherlock tastes the unmistakable flavor of his own blood. A hand snatches his head up, forcing him to look back at Moriarty. He can barely breathe...and his chest constricts further with deep terror as the sadist _slowly_ bends down and curls his fingers into Sherlock’s hair.

 

The touch is soft. If it were anyone but Moriarty, it might have been soothing.

 

“I’m afraid you leave me no choice, Sherlock.”

 

The touch lingers for a few moments, Moriarty’s fingers sliding carelessly over the bruised skin of the left side of Sherlock’s face—intentionally upsetting the one bruise that he was not responsible for.

 

“String him up, boys. Time to teach some gratitude.”

 

Sherlock is hauled up to his feet. A pair of handcuffs are roughly—and tightly—slapped onto his wrists, and he’s pulled into the center of the room. The metal of the handcuffs is already biting into his wrists...

 

He’s lifted into place, the short chain between the cuffs shifting onto a hook, and then Sherlock is dropped.

 

Moriarty watches him swing with sadistic glee.

 

“It’s been a while since we’ve needed to do this, hasn’t it?”

 

Sherlock is panting, trying desperately to avoid the pain. His mental barriers have long since been shattered, and there’s no defense...except for, perhaps, one...

 

 _John_.

 

He focuses desperately on John. Anything but the pain...anything but this...

 

_He’s...stroking my face. Those dark blue eyes wide with worry, and he’s saying something. Trying to comfort me. Wrapping me in his arms and telling me that it’ll all be alright._

_That he missed me..._

_He’s wearing that cream  jumper, and it feels soft against my face as I rest against him. But he’s warm. He’s warm and I’ve missed him...I’ve missed him so, so much..._

_John..._

 

The coat is suddenly torn from his back. The stitching was already weak, and so it’s ripped to shreds by one of the men. He hadn’t put his shirt back on, he was in such a hurry to get back here before something happened to John...

 

The sudden cold air on his bare skin makes him shiver nearly uncontrollably.

 

Moriarty walks forward, placing his bare hand on Sherlock’s bruised torso, the tips of his fingers lightly dipping into his navel. His dark eyes flit up to Sherlock’s, providing enough sensory data—fodder for Sherlock’s mind to chew on—to keep Sherlock from building up any lasting barriers.

 

...and Sherlock can’t stop himself.

 

_Smear of blood under left eye—splatter pattern suggests that he was close to, but not actually performing some sort of execution or torture method. Slight swelling under eyes indicates that it’s been at least 22 hours since he last slept, but body language says he isn’t at all tired. His suit is loose, to accommodate—_

Sherlock snaps out of his logical thinking as a sudden pain rips through him—the sensation of a white-hot blade slicing into his back.

 

As Sherlock begins to shake—begins to _shriek,_ Moriarty reaches up to grab a fistful of that curly hair, pulling Sherlock’s head down—stretching his back.

 

“Hold still, Sherly. I just need to freshen up your mark, that’s all.”

 

 _I.O.U._ The horrible thug behind him is carving it into his flesh, with a blade heated intentionally. Perhaps it’s meant to be a long-term mercy, so that it won’t get infected...or at least, Sherlock won’t require stitches.

 

But there is no mercy in this place. Sherlock tries to force himself to focus on Moriarty’s face and only finds deep cruelty, malice, and sadistic pleasure.

 

Moriarty’s hand slips to cup Sherlock’s face, his thumb sliding across those bruised, chapped lips, spread wide in an agonized shriek.

 

Sherlock snaps his eyes shut as his scream intensifies. He shuts out Moriarty’s face, and in his last conscious thought as blissful unconsciousness begins to fade around him, he sees John...

 

_John..._

 

His scream turns into that name...echoing out John’s name in a desperate prayer. Never before has he offered John’s name like that—not during torture. He pictures John the way he last saw him, the way he last heard his name being called down the hall, when he was already back in Moriarty’s grasp.

 

 

 _Sherlock!_ is the last thing his conscious mind fixates on before merciful blackness envelopes him.

 

Sherlock passes out, seconds later, falling limp against his now bleeding wrists, just as the thug finishes the very last stroke of the blade.

 

“Pity,” Moriarty whispers, his thumb still caressing Sherlock’s mouth, “...I’m not sure he’ll last long at all, at this rate.”

 

* * *

 

John’s phone buzzes.

 

He lifts his head slightly and glances at his clock.

 

_3:12._

 

It could be important. Could be Sherlock.

 

His hand clumsily searches his end table for his phone, and he pulls it to his chest once he finds it.

 

The number is blocked. Could be Sherlock.

 

He flips open his phone and looks at the message...

 

...and immediately rushes for the bathroom to throw up.

 

His phone lays on the bed as he retches in the bathroom. Someone sent him a picture.

 

A _horrible_ picture.

 

As he recovers himself, he returns to his phone, steeling himself to view the picture, and to do his best to try and identify _anything_ about it.

 

It’s Sherlock, stripped to the waist, hanging by his wrists. Blood is visible near where the handcuffs are biting into his skin, and he’s badly bruised. Even moreso than before. The bruising around his broken ribs is significantly worse, and it’s clear that Sherlock has passed out from the pain, by the way his head slumps down towards his chest.

 

...this was what Sherlock had been suffering for months, while John thought him dead. Perhaps it would have been better if he was—if this was what Sherlock had felt for the last few months.

 

...but why? Why go through this? And—especially—why let John see him again?

 

He stares at the screen, feeling a deep sense of rage and agony at seeing Sherlock that way. Far more painful than being beside a headstone is this. He can’t stand the idea of seeing Sherlock this way, and he has a very deep, very poignant sense that Sherlock doesn’t have much time left. Why, after all, would his captor let him loose? Surely he can’t get far on foot...not without help.

 

A tear suddenly splashes down on the screen before John violently shuts his phone.

 

No.

 

_No!_

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Still looking for a beta/brit picker. Send me a message or a comment or something.
> 
> And thank you all for your lovely comments and stuff! I'm really sorry (but not sorry) that this has been so dark early on. Update next Sunday! ♥

**Author's Note:**

> I'm hoping to update on a weekly schedule. c: I'm looking for a beta/brit-picker, so feel free to contact me.


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